"Tyler, there's something we need to discuss."
Drake with his long braids kept his voice even. The other two stood slightly apart, closing off the easy paths out of the clearing near the statue. Evening light cut through the trees in thin bands, leaving most of their faces in shadow.
These are the ones Greg warned me about.
Tyler didn't straighten up or try to look tough. Escalating here would only make things worse. He kept his eyes lowered and waited, feeling the cool air against the back of his neck and the faint remaining scent of the flowers he still held.
"What's with that?" Angelo said. His shoes shifted on the gravel. "That's not like you at all. Guess the rumors are true. You've changed."
The old habits pushed back hard. Tyler lifted his gaze and fixed Angelo with a flat, cold stare. The man stopped mid-step, just for a second. Drake's hand twitched near his side.
"Whoa. Easy!" Drake raised an open hand. "We mean no harm. Just talk."
Spike spoke next. His voice was calmer, more careful. "You wanted to join the crew before. We're here because there's still a place for you. Tony Mavis is waiting."
Tony Mavis. The same people who left this body to die on the apartment floor.
Tyler said nothing. He watched their shoulders, their hands, the distance between them and his scooter. The park around them felt too quiet. No joggers close by. No one near enough to notice if the conversation turned.
"Don't be like that," Angelo continued. A thin smile pulled at his mouth. "Tony saw potential in you. The other night was your initiation. You're still standing, so you passed."
Lies.
He could feel it in the way they watched him—too careful, too friendly. Whatever they wanted, it wasn't a simple invitation. The old Tyler might have bought the flattery. The one wearing this body now only felt the weight of the trap underneath it.
"I've still been recovering," Tyler said. His voice stayed level. "Can we talk about this another time?"
He took a step toward the scooter. Gravel crunched under his shoe. Drake moved with him and set a heavy hand on his shoulder. The grip was firm, not quite painful, but deliberate.
"You shouldn't let this opportunity pass," the man said. His breath smelled faintly of beer and smoke. "Join us and you'll make a real name for yourself. Think about it."
Tyler reached up, removed the hand without shoving, and swung a leg over the scooter. The seat was cool under him. "I won't give you an answer right now."
The engine caught on the first try, a rough vibration running up through the frame. He didn't look back as he pulled away from the three of them and headed into the thinning evening traffic. Wind pressed against his face. He finally slipped free and tumbled onto the road behind him.
Behind him, Angelo clicked his tongue.
"What now?" Spike asked.
"At least we know it's really him," Angelo said. He rolled one shoulder as if disappointed. "We should've just hit him while we had the chance. I've been missing a good fight."
"Leave him," Drake replied. His eyes stayed on the road where the scooter's taillight had already disappeared. "We'll have time later."
The next morning the alarm went off at 0630—a sharp metallic beep that cut through the quiet apartment. Tyler opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then sat up. The sheets felt rough against his skin. His head was clearer than the first mornings in this body, but the underlying fatigue from the stamina penalty still sat low in his limbs.
He changed into the only workout clothes he could find—an old shirt that smelled faintly of dust and a pair of loose pants—and left the building. The stairwell was cool and smelled of concrete and last night's rain. Outside, the street was still mostly empty. A delivery truck idled somewhere in the distance. Cool air touched his face as he settled into a steady jog around the block.
His lungs burned earlier than they should have. Each inhale scraped a little. The body's stamina penalty made itself known with every block—tightness in the calves, a heavier pull in his chest, the urge to stop sooner than thirty minutes. He kept going anyway, counting corners and breath, until the time was up and he turned back toward the apartment.
By 0700 he was inside again. He showered, letting the warm water run over sore shoulders and wash away sweat and the thin layer of road dust. The cheap soap left a sharp, clean scent that briefly covered the older smells of the apartment. He changed into the academy uniform while the mirror still held a haze of steam.
Breakfast was the same as the day before: toast, a couple of sausages, cheap bread. He sat at the small table and ate without much taste, already thinking about money. The allowance from his parents—who worked abroad—usually arrived near the end of the month. Until then the balance was thin. The old Tyler had burned through most of it on nights out, bottles, and whatever else filled the gaps. There were memories of walking out of convenience stores with things he hadn't paid for when the cash ran low. The images came with a sour edge now.
That's not going to work anymore.
He stared at the nearly empty fridge and the plain food on the table. Living like this every morning was possible. It just wasn't going to be enough if he wanted anything that felt like a real life instead of another slow slide toward the same end this body had already met once.
An idea settled in while he finished the last piece of toast. A part-time job. Fast food. Convenience store. Something with a uniform and a pay cycle that didn't depend on parents overseas or on the old habits. Crew work. Honest hours. A way to stay above water without sliding back into the version of Tyler everyone still expected to see.
It was 0800. He still had time before he needed to leave for the academy.
He found a sheet of paper and a pen in a drawer that stuck halfway when he pulled it. The pen ink was uneven. He tried to write a simple application letter—name, availability, a short line about wanting steady work. The words came out crowded and slanted. Some letters collapsed into each other. By the time he reached the end, the page looked like something a manager would glance at once and throw straight into the trash.
Tyler stared at it for a second. The handwriting belonged to this body, and this body had never cared about being readable.
He crumpled the paper hard enough that the edges bit into his palm, then tossed it toward the bin. It hit the rim and fell in.
Typing it would be better. Find a net café later.
He was still thinking about where the nearest one might be—whether it was on the way to the academy or would cost him time he didn't have—when a sudden pressure bloomed behind his eyes. It wasn't the usual headache. It felt sharper, deeper, like something pushing up from under the surface of his thoughts. The edges of the room seemed to thin.
Images flickered—fast, incomplete, out of order. A hallway with scuffed floors. Raised voices bouncing off lockers. The smell of rain on hot pavement. A fist connecting. Someone's scared expression turning away too late. The fragments jumped too quickly to hold, each one carrying a flash of heat or noise or shame before the next replaced it.
What is this?
The system window opened with a clean chime that felt louder than it should have in the quiet kitchen.
[Notification] A memory fragment has been unlocked. Playing memory in…
3 2 1
White light flooded his vision, bright enough that he raised a hand without thinking. The apartment, the table, the morning light through the window—all of it vanished under the glare.
Darkness followed, thick and complete.
When Tyler opened his eyes again, everything was different.
The air smelled older, heavier with dust and distant rain. The light fell at the wrong angle, thinner and grayer. The body he occupied felt the same weight and the same scars, yet the world around him had shifted, as if he had been dropped into a moment that no longer belonged to the present.
Sounds reached him first—muffled voices, a door slamming somewhere far off, the faint buzz of a light that needed changing.
The memory had begun.
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